


just one more life

by nxrcissa



Series: B Kills her Darlings [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Car Accidents, Dancer Grantaire, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending For Some, Healing, Healthy Relationships, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, a DISGUSTING amount of fanon tropes, but i cant help myself, but the enemies bit is only really shown in flashbacks, i see them i know, or maybe, Éponine and Gavroche stay dead i'm afraid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:47:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21665425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nxrcissa/pseuds/nxrcissa
Summary: It was a Thursday when Les Amis lost two of their own.Enjolras stared at his agenda. He stared at the empty chairs. He waited for them to stare back.Three, he realised.They lost three of their own.═════ ═════ ═════Or: Grantaire loses his family, and his family loses him.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Les Amis de l'ABC Friendship
Series: B Kills her Darlings [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1761886
Comments: 9
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

It was a Thursday, when Les Amis lost two of their own. The news reached Enjolras and Combeferre at breakfast on the waves of a call from Courfeyrac. It rang in Enjolras’ ears. The weather was appropriately wet and dreary, but the birds chirped as if anyone could stand to hear them. He thought of sitting on the balcony with Éponine at dawn, birdsong joining her quiet humming. 

_Good mo-_

_Car accident. Éponine and Gavroche are in the emergency room._

In the waiting room, Enjolras saw Marius, head in hands, red stained on his white shirt. His heart dropped.

“Marius…” 

They dropped into the chairs beside him. Combeferre wrapped his arms around Marius, pulling his shaking figure into a comforting embrace. Enjolras tried not to stare at the blood on Marius’ arms. 

“How are they?” Combeferre asked. 

“Gav is in the ward with R.”

Marius was quiet for a moment. 

“And how’s Éponine?” Enjolras prompted him. 

Marius simply shook him head. Combeferre took a sharp breath in, his face twisting in grief.

The smell of antiseptic and the harsh white lights were too much for Enjolras. He blinked once, twice. Across the room, an elderly man was wringing his hands, eyes far away. The receptionist picked up the phone. He hadn’t even noticed that the phone was ringing. Its shrill sound matched the ringing in his ears. Enjolras could taste the antiseptic. He felt the fluorescent lights in his bone marrow. 

Without a word, he stood up and went to the bathroom. He wet some paper towels with shaking hands. 

He wiped the blood from Marius’ arms. 

═════ ═════ ═════

They weren’t allowed into the ward. Grantaire hadn’t left Gavroche’s side, as far as they knew. He didn’t have his phone, and the employees wouldn’t tell them anything. Jehan was holding Enjolras’ hand tightly. Joly was on the phone to Cosette, who left on holiday with her father the day before. Feuilly was arguing with an employee who wouldn’t let any of them see Éponine in the hospital morgue. 

Marius breathed out heavily. 

“Éponine was walking Gav to school.” 

They all stopped breathing for a moment. Marius hadn’t spoken since he and Combeferre arrived. Joly handed his phone to Marius so Cosette could hear, and Feuilly abruptly ended his call. Enjolras squeezed Jehan’s hand back.

“They came into the studio to see us on the way. Gav whined about his school and tried to convince Éponine to let him audition for our company,” Marius huffed out a pained laugh. 

“They were right outside the studio. They were right there.” 

His voice broke, anguish accenting every word. Enjolras clenched his jaw, biting back the surge of desperate grief that threatened to overflow. Jehan started to cry. 

“It was a black car, going fast. They were crossing the street. And the studio doors - they’re glass. I was walking to the changing rooms, but R was already changed.”

“He saw it happen,” Combeferre realised in horror. Marius nodded tightly. 

“Jesus Christ,” Courfeyrac exhaled in dismay. Enjolras silently agreed with that sentiment. He was lost, sorrowful, helpless. What could he possibly do to help? 

_This must be Grantaire’s worst nightmare._

A few days after he first met him, in the midst of an argument about nihilism, he told Enjolras that Éponine and Gavroche were what made his life worth living. He hoped that Grantaire had expanded that list since then. God, he hoped.

“The car just kept driving. He told the police the license plate, but it was a fake. Gav, he was unconscious, but Éponine was awake. She said it was okay, because we were there. We went in the ambulance with them and- she didn’t make it here. ”

Marius crumbled even as the words left his lips. 

The story floated in the air around them, suffocating. 

_She said it was okay, because we were there._

Marius and Grantaire were Éponine’s best friends, in different ways. Marius was an escape for Éponine - he was kind, naïve, trusting. He was generous with his friendship. Éponine had never known generosity. Grantaire was her brother in all but blood, but he was abrasive and rash. Marius was gentle, considerate. He never asked the questions that weighed on him, seeming to sense that she didn’t want to talk about it. She visited him to have fun, to forget about her life, to bask in his generosity and innocence. It delighted Éponine that an upper-class pansy could be so genuinely good-hearted.

Abrasive and rash as he was, Éponine loved Grantaire greatest of all. Upon first meeting them, everyone immediately assumed that they were together. It wasn’t hard to see why. They’d lived together since senior year of high school, raised Gavroche together, did everything together. Once, drunk off her ass, Éponine said she needed to go home, then launched herself directly into Grantaire’s arms and declared that she’d arrived. Grantaire had rolled his eyes, adjusted her in his arms, and continued arguing with Enjolras like nothing had ever happened. Where Marius provided her with an escape, Grantaire was one of the few comforts of her reality. Over the years, Enjolras had seen Grantaire calm Éponine down from murderous rage within seconds, make her laugh and smile like nobody else could, and take on her burdens in a way she’d never allow anyone else to. 

Enjolras thought of Marius and Grantaire, her oldest friends, sat beside her in the jolting ambulance. He imagined her weak smile, always reassuring her friends despite her own pain. It made him feel sick in a way he’d never felt before. He was glad she wasn’t alone, but he knew it would hurt Marius and Grantaire for the rest of their lives. 

Marius’ head snapped up when he heard the doors to the ward swing open. Instinctively, they all followed his gaze. 

It was Grantaire. He was still in his pointe shoes. The delicate silk was marred by red splotches. The eyes that usually dance with mirth were the hospital’s linoleum floor from staring at it. Enjolras followed the line of tension that was binding Grantaire. It was tied to all of them, and it led past the swinging doors of the ward. 

Perhaps it didn’t mean much since Grantaire had never trusted him enough to be vulnerable with him, but R looked worse than Enjolras had ever seen him. True, he’d seen R drunk, angry, sneering, sullen, but Enjolras knew that he was foolish to ever think that he’d seen R wearing an ugly emotion. This was the ugliest. The emptiness. Enjolras had never seen so little spirit in him. He idly wondered if Éponine took Grantaire’s spirit with her, too, if spirits existed. Grantaire looked like a breath might shatter him. Enjolras wanted to reach out to him, he wanted to buy him new shoes and tell him everything would be alright. But it was possible, Enjolras realised in a bolt of fear, that it wouldn’t be, not for Grantaire. 

Bahorel shot up, striding over to R and gathering the man up in a tight hug. Grantaire melted into it, his blank eyes sliding shut. Enjolras felt a burning behind his ribs.

Bahorel walked them over to the chairs, easing Grantaire down next to Jehan. 

“Gavroche?” Combeferre asked. Grantaire’s eyes were already closed, but he squeezed them shut tighter. The muscles in his jaw flexed. 

“There’s- There’s a whole bunch of medical shit I don’t understand. I know there’s a lot of internal bleeding and broken bones. He won’t wake up.” 

“Do you want me to talk to the doctors?” Joly offered. Grantaire nodded.

“Thanks. There might not be much to talk about. They already tried surgery.”

“Tried?” Marius breathed. 

“Tried,” Grantaire repeated, taking a rattling breath, “they told me it’s not looking good. They said the surgery bought some time, but-”

_He might never wake up._

“Dear God,” Marius choked out. He dropped his head back in his hands. 

“What happened?” Cosette’s tinny voice asked. Joly took the phone back and told her. 

Save for the sounds of crying, they were silent. What more was there to say? Their friend was dead, and little Gavroche was close to following her. What could they do but wait and grieve? 

Enjolras started to taste the antiseptic again. He abruptly stood, hand still locked tightly in Jehan’s. The others looked up at him, startled. He cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“I’m going to get you both a change of clothes,” he said to Marius and Grantaire. He didn’t wait for a reply. He couldn’t.

So he took the keys to their apartments and left, antiseptic still on his tongue. 

═════ ═════ ═════

Enjolras went to Marius and Courfeyrac’s apartment first. It was quick and easy. He knew their apartment like the back of his hand.

He stood outside Grantaire’s door for three minutes before he had the courage to unlock it. 

Though the three of them always complained that the apartment was small, Enjolras always thought it charming and full of character. On that day, the welcoming air felt wrong. He tried not to linger too long, but it was impossible to ignore the traces of the Thenardiers as he passed by. A wrinkled worksheet on the table read ‘Try Again’ in red marker at the top. _Name the two organelles labelled on the diagram,_ the worksheet asked. _Don Esteban Martinez the III,_ one was labelled in purple crayon, _Stacy,_ said the other, in sparking green gel pen. 

Éponine’s low black pumps for work were lying in front of the couch like she’d kicked them off just a moment ago. Framed photos of their family - Grantaire, Gavroche and Éponine - were perched on every surface, and some of their friends too. Enjolras supposed they might have hung them, but every available wall was covered with Grantaire’s art. Though the pieces were all beautiful, one caught Enjolras’ attention on the way to Grantaire’s bedroom. It hadn’t been there the last time Enjolras visited. It was a watercolour of the studio, he realised, depicting Grantaire and Gavroche dancing together. It was different to all of the other paintings, somehow. Something about it made him want to smile and cry all at once. 

Enjolras jolted away from the painting like it slapped him.

He went into Grantaire’s room and shoved some clothes into a duffel bag he founds on the floor. Enjolras thought of the bloodstained pointe shoes, suddenly. The watercolour painting of Grantaire’s graceful poise, Gavroche laughingly trying to copy him. Grantaire’s bedroom floor was covered in clothes, art supplies and water bottles of varying emptiness. Enjolras sighed, kicked some clothes around. Eventually, he found a pair of beaten old sneakers that he threw in the bag. When he blinked, the red splatters on Grantaire’s pointe shoes mocked him behind his eyelids.

When he turned his head, he caught a whiff of antiseptic. 

Enjolras briskly left Grantaire’s room, trying desperately to stay on task. In the bathroom, Enjolras stared at the toothbrush holder, trying to figure out which one was Grantaire’s. He figured R wouldn’t leave Gavroche’s side until he was forced. And in any case, he shouldn’t return to his apartment, where Éponine and Gavroche lingered like the fading warmth of a recently vacated seat.

 _Why is that painting so different?_ He found himself wondering. He didn’t know anything about paintings, really. 

It’s more clumsy, amateurish. Perhaps it was done earlier in Grantaire’s painting career. He could practically hear it - Éponine putting it back up on the walls every time Grantaire tried to take it down, Gavroche crowing about being the subject of one of his paintings. 

That wasn’t it though. Enjolras realised with a start that it was the only painting he had ever seen that featured Grantaire. Grantaire had drawn his own hands and feet before; Enjolras had watched him stare at the lines of one palm in deep concentration, pencil in the other. But, he slowly remembered, his friend wasn’t one for self-portraits. In fact, he was so opposed to them that he did an entire series of portraits of Jehan in high school to avoid doing a single self-portrait. The teacher had been exasperated at his disobedience, but so impressed with his work that she had given him an A- anyway. Mme Prouvaire had been delighted to tell Enjolras the story; one of the portraits hung in the Prouvaire family’s dining room. 

There were three toothbrushes. They all appeared to come from the same pack, identical aside from colour. Blue, green and orange. He didn’t want to bring Éponine’s toothbrush. He could see the blank stare Grantaire would give it, fixated on the plastic like it would give him all the answers. 

Enjolras felt his heart speed up. He decided to buy Grantaire a new one. 

On the way out of the apartment, Enjolras couldn’t help but go back to that watercolour. 

All of Grantaire’s artworks, in any medium, were signed with a black capital R. This watercolour was not signed with a capital R. Instead, in the corner, there was a tiny pencil doodle that Enjolras never would’ve noticed if he hadn’t been searching for a signature. It was a clumsy doodle of E.T., probably Gavroche’s doing. 

Enjolras heard Grantaire’s laugh, he saw Éponine’s scowl as R ruffled her brother’s hair. _You ruined my painting._ The memory of Gavroche’s cheeky grin made Enjolras’ chest ache. _It’s not my fault your initials are E.T._ There wasn’t a speck of red on Grantaire’s pointe shoes, in the painting. _Why do you have to use my initials, then?_ Enjolras turned away, unable to look at it any longer. _It runs in the family to sign things with your initials, right R?_

He zipped up the duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder, sending off a quick text to Combeferre to let him know he was on his way back.

Éponine’s threadbare brown coat was draped over the back of an armchair. The plastic toy basketball hoop Gav got last year from their white elephant gift exchange stood over the recycling bin. On his way out, he tried not to look at the his-and-hers keyholders that the landlord had given a laughing Grantaire for housewarming. 

It was too much, but it wasn’t enough. 

Enjolras withered from the pain, but desperately wanted to commit everything to memory. A part of him screamed in fear of forgetting even a single detail about Éponine and Gavroche. The apartment could not remain in stasis forever. His stomach twisted at the very thought of Grantaire packing things into boxes. The urge to glue Gavroche’s science worksheet to the table was so strong it made him choke. 

It wasn’t until he was sitting in the hospital parking lot that he let himself cry. At least the salty tears were on his tongue instead of the taste of bile and the hospital. When he went inside, everyone had red-rimmed eyes except Grantaire, who was still staring blankly at the linoleum.

Grantaire changed clothes and returned to Gavroche’s side. The next time they saw him, a nurse was supporting his weight as he staggered out of the ward like he’d been shot. 

Five hours and forty-seven minutes after they lost Éponine, they lost Gavroche. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A funeral, and a snapshot of the first time Enjolras met Éponine

_“The whole structure needs to change-”_

_Enjolras vaguely registered the bell above the door ringing, the sounds of the outside leaking into the Musain, but he was practiced in the art of ignoring them._

_“-at the federal legislative level if we ever want to-”_

_“There’s no way you did that!”_

_It was the sound of Jehan’s lilting voice._

_“He did,” a female voice grumbled, “and he never stops reminding me of that.”_

_Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s heads shot up at the sound of the unfamiliar voice. Enjolras trailed off, following their eyes to the entrance._

_Grantaire and Jehan were there, looking relaxed and happy, and between them was a woman. She was rolling her eyes fondly at Grantaire, who was giving her one of his signature cheeky grins. Combeferre and Courfeyrac seemed surprised to see her._

_“R finally brought her,” Courfeyrac said excitedly to Combeferre._

_“What a pleasant surprise,” Combeferre replied._

_Enjolras held back a sigh. He didn’t particularly care about whoever_ she _was, especially since Grantaire brought her. Although he hoped it would mean Grantaire’s unhelpful comments would simply be whispered to her instead of interjected while Enjolras was speaking._

═════ ═════ ═════

The funeral was small, and Enjolras was not surprised. Éponine and Gavroche knew a great many people, but trusted very few. Though the venue was small, every seat was filled.

The caskets were closed. They would not be able to see the remnants of their friends, but Grantaire had painted the contents of their souls on the outsides of their caskets. 

Gavroche’s casket was brash, grand and fanciful. Enjolras couldn’t see all the details from where he sat, but he could make out David and Goliath, towering buildings and a ringing bell. On Éponine’s, Grantaire had painted dark clouds and thunderstorms, but instead of drops of rain, flower petals fell from the sky. Leaves sprouted from the barrels of guns. Éponine, painted reverently in the style of a Greek goddess, sat between the thick roots of a laurel tree, roots which seemed to curl affectionately around her. She looked content, eyes closed and a simple peace to her features. Enjolras idly wondered if she had ever looked like that, or if Grantaire had simply wished her contentedness into being. 

Next to the caskets, a photo of the two of them smiling together had been blown up and propped onto a stand.

Marius stepped back from the lectern with wet cheeks. As he made his way back to his seat, Grantaire made his way up. The two friends shared a long, desperate hug. Enjolras wanted to rush over and join them. Marius’ speech had been lovely, a montage of the most beautiful parts of Éponine and Gavroche’s lives. Enjolras had a feeling Grantaire’s speech would not be so rose tinted.

The man in question stared at the photo from behind the lectern. The sunlight through stained glass cast vibrant colours on his ashen face. 

Dust danced in the silence. 

“Éponine and I planned our funerals together,” Grantaire began. 

“Not because we were dying, but because of the kind of people we were. Low income people of colour with connections to both criminals and political activists? A beautiful young woman working in hospitality and a queer alcoholic male dancer? It seemed to us inevitable. If our friends were destined to burn bright, Éponine and I were embers waiting to fade. And yet, now that she’s gone, I find myself unable to comprehend it.” 

Enjolras watched Grantaire’s every movement in rapt attention. He was remarkably composed, voice never breaking, words never stalling. A bitterness tinged his tone, laced with a soft fondness that could only be tied to memories of Éponine. Grantaire paused, dropping his eyes from the portrait and finding a spot in the distance to stare at instead.

Enjolras’ emotions were struggling amongst themselves. There was grief, undoubtedly, but also anger at the injustice of it all, indignation that the world made them feel like their days were numbered simply because they existed, and despair that in some ways, they had been right. 

Grantaire seemed to draw himself out of his mind. When he spoke again, the bitterness was gone.

“We did the funeral planning in instalments, usually while Gav was at school. Most of what you see was chosen by Éponine: the venue, the caskets, the flowers.”

“The funeral - these were our plans for ourselves. But we had different plans for Gav. He was never meant to end up here.”

Grantaire’s voice broke.

“Gavroche was the best kid in the world. He had such a bright future waiting for him. Even though he hated it, he was doing better at school than ‘Ponine and I ever did. He surprised me every day with how clever he was. He was a vibrant, talented dancer. And he was a cheeky little rascal, but he was also the bravest little man you’d ever meet. He was full to the brim with life. He was just a kid, but sometimes it felt like he’d experienced enough for three lifetimes. His walls are covered in photos from his journalism phase, charcoal drawings from his art phase, and a graffiti style mural from his vandalism phase. He sold his bike for roller blades, then sold those for a scooter, then finally settled on a skateboard. And whether it was the kid from boxing class or the tech crew at our local theatre, Gavroche charmed everybody. He had a way about him - his unwavering confidence was magnetic. Curiosity fuelled him to constantly try new things, but his confidence allowed him to succeed in anything he put his mind to and pick up ten new friends to boot.”

Gavroche grinned out from the photo beside Grantaire. Enjolras stared at the gap between his teeth, at his dimples. He couldn’t get over how young Gav was.

“Our plans for Gav were big. He was going to be the first college graduate in the family. We wanted to see him standing up on the stage in those stupid robes. He was destined to find success in whatever he chose to do. I wish I could tell you what that would’ve been. He wanted to be a private investigator last week, a stage manager before that, and a stripper before that. He even wanted to be a firefighter until he realised there was more to it than sliding down the pole.”

Scattered laughter broke out across the room. 

“We always encouraged all of his interests, even when they led to nothing. Éponine didn’t care what career he chose, she just wanted to give him every opportunity she never had. She was so strong for Gav, but she deserved a better life, too. I’ll always wish I was able to give that to her,” he admitted quietly, with a deep sigh.

Enjolras’ hands curled closed around the fabric of his trousers. He felt a pang of despair. How could Grantaire say that? How could he say that when he’d spent the better part of a decade helping to raise Éponine’s little brother? Offering her his unwavering love and support? Grantaire was a starving artist working two jobs as it was. For all his flaws, nobody would ever accuse Grantaire of being anything less than devoted to those he loved. He’d given Éponine and Gavroche all that he could.

“Regardless of the disadvantages they were dealt, they found ways to thrive. When everything has gone to shit, you learn to love the little things in life. She and Gav loved walking to school together every morning, even if he’d never admit it. She loved watching Marius and I rehearse before she went off to work. Gav loved his dance lessons with us. He always rushed through his homework on Wednesdays so he could get to the studio earlier. ‘Ponine loved her regulars, she loved painting with me on our days off, she loved sitting in on our friends’ meetings and talking about the state of the world at the back table where nobody else could hear. We loved our biweekly family dinners with Marius. She and I were making our way through One Thousand and One Films to See Before You Die, and we still had 827 to go.” 

Enjolras felt the pain in every inch of his body. The room was filled with the sounds of sniffs and sobs.

“But even though I’m angry that they were taken from the world so soon, I’m grateful for the time we had together. When I met Éponine, she was a con-artist who thought she’d end up in prison as a high school drop out. But she left that life, she got her diploma, and she raised a wonderful kid. It was my privilege to watch her turn her life around. She became the most resilient, determined, and hard-working person imaginable. Éponine defied every expectation by being kind and loving in every way she was taught not to be.”

It was impossible to keep the tears at bay. Enjolras felt them leaving hot trails down his cheeks, despite his best efforts. 

“It might not seem like much, but we were proud of where we ended up. With the lives we came from, surviving was the best anyone could hope for. But they rose above. They got out. They rejected everything they knew to make a new life, and through hard-work and patience, they found peace. More than that, they found happiness and hope for the future. And in turn, they gave me something better, too. They gave me a family. So, Éponine, Gavroche, thank you for letting me be a part of your lives. I hope we meet again someday.”

Grantaire stared at the closed caskets for a moment more. He took a deep shuddering breath, something desperate and pleading in his eyes. Then he blinked, and the expression had receded into reserved solemnity. Enjolras watched, tears streaming down his face, as Grantaire turned and walked back to his seat.

═════ ═════ ═════

_Grantaire’s friend was named Éponine, apparently. Enjolras had made himself pointedly busy throughout the meeting, so he wouldn’t have to be introduced to one of Grantaire’s friends, who was no doubt as horrid as the man himself._

_“So,” Éponine cornered him after the meeting, something predatory glinting in her eye, “you’re Enjolras.”_

_He nodded stiffly._

_“Marius and R seem to think you’re something special.”_

_Enjolras was unsurprised. He raised an eyebrow, inviting her to make her point._

_“I don’t know. What’s so special about another rich white boy who thinks he’s hot shit?”_

_“I never claimed to be special,” he replied, terse. She snorted._

_“You act like it.”_

_“How so?”_

_“Exclusive club, huh? No women, mostly white...how many of you have college degrees? Everyone but ‘Taire, huh?”_

_“Your point is that most of the friends I made at my all-boys private school come from similar socioeconomic backgrounds,” Enjolras stated, unimpressed. She narrowed her eyes at him._

_“My point is that you need a fucking ladder to get down from that high horse.”_

═════ ═════ ═════

Enjolras clutched at the handle of Éponine’s casket. The door seemed impossibly far away with the weight of his friend's unmoving body in his hands. A song was playing - he recognised the tune.

He was struck by the sudden impression of Éponine humming it while doing the dishes. He saw Marius spinning her around playfully under the sickly yellow lights, and Gavroche scrunching his nose distastefully. 

There was so much music in their lives, he mused, it seemed almost wrong that there was music in their deaths. Something about music was so vital, the pulse of the drum and bass like a heartbeat. Why did this song get to keep beating? 

But there was something defiant about it too, and wasn’t that their fallen friends to a T? 

Somehow, he made it down the aisle.

═════ ═════ ═════

_They stared each other down for a moment._

_“You don’t know me,” Enjolras frowned._

_“And you don’t know Grantaire,” she shot back._

_Ah, so that’s what it was about. He supposed she didn’t like how he’d treated her friend during the meeting. Perhaps Grantaire had even given her some sob story about how Enjolras bullied him. He rolled his eyes._

_“I know enough.”_

_“You don’t know shit. You never had to go through what we did. You don’t have the right to judge people like us for what we do to get by.”_

_“It’s not Grantaire’s livelihood that I dislike,” Enjolras protested. Éponine glared._

_“It’s not Grantaire’s livelihood I’m talking about.”_

_Enjolras paused._

_“What are you talking about, then?”_

_“His annoying bullshit,” she responded exasperatedly, as if it was obvious, “his alcoholism. All that. What else?”_

_Enjolras opened his mouth to respond, but Éponine seemed to be uninterested in anything he had to say._

_“You don’t have to like it. But you can lay off the snobby attitude. You’re all about ‘the people’,” she mocked, “but ‘the people’ walks in the door and you want him to walk right back out.”_

_“I’m not classist just because I dislike one disadvantaged man,” Enjolras shook his head, “Grantaire doesn’t stand for the whole working class.”_

_“And nothing he says stands for the working class because you don’t like him.”_

_“I never said that.”_

_“Don’t play games, it’s how you act. You don’t have to say it. You got two poor people in this whole club and you ignore everything one of them says ‘cause you got a problem with how he says it.”_

_“That’s not-”_

_“Look, I only saw this one meeting and I know it’s true. You said you went to a private school?”_

_He inclined his head in agreement._

_“Don’t you think someone who went to public school knows more about it, then?” she challenged._

_“Grantaire may come from an underprivileged background, but-”_

_“That doesn’t mean he knows anything about what will help poor kids,” Éponine interjected sarcastically. Enjolras worked his jaw._

_“Will you let me finish a sentence?” he ground out._

_“Just did,” she deadpanned. Enjolras seethed. He could see why Éponine and Grantaire got along so well._

_“So what do you suggest, if you disagree that legislation is the solution?” Combeferre interrupted, his voice even and civil. Enjolras relaxed slightly at the sound of his friend’s voice approaching. Éponine glared at Enjolras a moment longer before turning her severity on Combeferre._

_“None of you listen to Grantaire when he talks, do you?” she asked rhetorically, “I thought he was exaggerating.”_

_“Would you be so kind as to repeat what he said?” Combeferre asked diplomatically, though Enjolras could tell that he was miffed and taken aback. Éponine rolled her eyes, but obliged._

_“What am I, Spark Notes? He said the kids need free tutoring and textbooks and meals. He said you should make a fund to pay for that stuff every year, and immediately donate money for lunch debt. Something about scholarships, I don’t know.”_

_“Now hold on, he didn’t say any of that,” Enjolras objected, “he said ‘they don’t need your empty words, they need your money’, then he called me a pencil-pushing bureaucrat.”_

_Éponine nodded as if Enjolras had just proved her point._

_“Yeah, exactly. Then he said that he would’ve been a pompous ass like you if he had hundred dollar textbooks and tutoring and three meals a day as a kid.”_

_“You’re right,” Combeferre nodded thoughtfully, “he did actually mention fundraising for lunch debt and scholarships, too.”_

_Enjolras looked at his friend incredulously. Was he seriously taking Grantaire’s side, here?_

_“Insulting me and pointing out my privilege is not the same as proposing an alternate plan.”_

_“Hm,” Combeferre hummed, “isn’t it? Grantaire wasn’t in debate club and model UN and mock trial, E. We can’t expect him to think and speak the way we do. If that’s the way he knows how to say it, perhaps we should take more care to listen.”_

_Before Enjolras could reply, Combeferre turned back Éponine curiously._

_“So, tutoring, free textbooks, subsidised lunches. Did you and Grantaire benefit from those things while you were at school?” Combeferre questioned. She stared at him suspiciously for a moment, like she was trying to gouge whether or not he was sincere._

_“We would’ve,” she said eventually, with great reluctance, “‘Taire worked. He sent me to a tutor, and then he’d get me to teach him after because the guy charged more for multiple students. If we had free tutors, maybe…”_

_There was something wistful in her tone, but when Enjolras blinked, it was gone._

_“In his senior year, ‘Taire ate one meal a day,” Éponine continued briskly, “Free school breakfast. That’s the exact thing you were talking about, but when he spoke up, you brushed it off.”_

_“No, I didn’t. Grantaire’s experiences are exactly why we have to push for change nationwide - to make sure everyone like Grantaire gets their meal. Fundraising for the local school is a good idea, but it’s only treating a symptom of the disease. We can’t fundraise for every school in the country.”_

_“Treating the symptom means feeding starving kids.”_

_“Treating the disease feeds more starving kids in the future,” Enjolras countered._

_“They’re starving now!” Éponine snapped harshly, “And they’re starving here. You can do something about it_ now _, and you would rather write petitions and make phone calls for the future.”_

_“You heard Grantaire’s story and you said it proves your point, even though he disagrees with you,” she said, quieter, “You think you’re different to those big-talking politicians, but that’s exactly what they do, too. If those rich people didn’t pay for our breakfasts at school, ‘Taire would’ve starved to keep our lights on. You think there weren’t people exactly like you writing petitions and making phone calls then, too? They weren’t the ones who put food in our mouths.”_

_Enjolras and Combeferre stared at her. Enjolras refused to show it, but he was shocked at the revelation that Grantaire had been significantly worse off than he’d indicated. He’d always told them that he had ‘enough’ growing up. He'd never so much as hinted that he was paying rent and utilities while he was still in high school, or that he'd practically starved to do it._

_At least, not to you, a voice sneered in his mind._

_“That’s a fair point,” Enjolras said after a moment._

_Éponine frowned incredulously._

_“Oh, now that_ I _say it, it’s a fair point? Waste of fucking time.”_

_And with that, she turned on her heel and stalked out of the café, dragging Grantaire with her. The man in question, who had been chatting to Feuilly when she’d grabbed him mid-sentence, waved a cheerful goodbye to the room at large._

_Enjolras didn’t think that Éponine was right that she’d just reiterated Grantaire’s point. Surely not. He didn’t think he was so biased that he couldn’t recognise a good argument from someone he disliked. Nevertheless, she’d made several other very good points, and that made him feel uncomfortable about all the things he very much did not want her to be right about. It was...unsettling to consider that perhaps Grantaire’s myriad of flaws and issues came from deeper systematic roots rather than his own shortcomings, as Enjolras had always presumed._

_He had a lot to think about._

═════ ═════ ═════

After Marius and Grantaire had moved through the crowd, greeting various guests and accepting condolences, Les Amis departed for the graveyard. Enjolras couldn’t look away from the paintings on the caskets as Éponine and Gavroche were lowered into the ground.

He wondered if the paintings were one of the items Grantaire and Éponine had planned ahead of time. He didn’t know why, but he felt certain Grantaire had done it impulsively. Perhaps he couldn’t stand the thought of them being buried in bland, nondescript boxes. 

He was startled from his thoughts when Combeferre nudged his side, indicating it was time for them to start burying their friends. Grantaire and Marius threw the first fistfuls of dirt into the plots.

Enjolras stared at his feet and clenched his fist, feeling the dirt filter through his fingers.

The grass around the plot was far too green.

He relaxed his hand, and there was nothing but daylight left in his fingers.

═════ ═════ ═════

_“She was certainly something,” Combeferre commented mildly, cleaning his glasses. Watching as Éponine and Grantaire strolled off down the street, Enjolras nodded gravely._

_“Yes, she was.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> agggghhhh i kinda hate this chapter but i had to get through it. terribly sorry for foisting it onto you.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading :))
> 
> please leave a comment, they make my heart go !!!!!!!!!


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